Infinite Mana In The Apocalypse novel Chapter 3749

As the Infiniverse Crucible continued its wonders.

Far from it.

From the edge of a collapsing concept, deep within the Dead Wheel of Existence, a paradox walked.

Ozymandias.

A Dead Thing, yet still tethered to something far beyond simple collapse.

A remnant of Existence.

A Quintessential Entity.

The Dead Prime Frequency of the End rippled with black flame as he stepped forward, having been bathing in death the last two days.

Blue-gold threads wove into his obsidian body like echoes from another Existence, his form cloaked in funeral elegance, roiling obsidian mist wrapped in infinite runes.

His bare feet left no imprint on the death-wrapped soil and space.

Yet his presence carved scars into the very resonance of this realm.

He did not breathe. He did not pulse.

But existence around him remembered that he once had. That he was a Living Thing!

"Even death," Ozymandias murmured, his voice thunderous despite its softness, "can be refined."

The Prime Frequency of the End had become a frequency of soot-stained memory. It recalled the Final Collapse of the Living Wheel. Structures once vibrant calcified into shimmering decay, their Source Weavings frayed like withered silk.

Here, everything died slowly. With purpose.

But Ozymandias walked through it effortlessly.

He disappeared from it moments later.

The Dead Prime Frequency of Flame came next.

And it wept.

Orange-gold ashes fell like dying snowflakes. The air burned without heat. Rivers of magma flowed in reverse. At the heart of it all, flickers of the Singed sputtered like memories from a forgotten dream.

Ozymandias closed his eyes, drawing on the Living Memory of when this realm had burned in glory. He remembered the beauty. The destruction. The freedom he saw briefly from the Singed!

He had seen the Living Prime Frequency of Flames in its glory… and now stood before its grave.

Then came the Dead True Frequency of the Singed, pulsing with crimson ruin. The flames here no longer lived. They screamed death. Every flicker, every ember, echoed what once was, what had perished.

And he moved through it as if he belonged.

Because he did.

The Dead favored the Dead.

The Nullvein Gravewake Folds respected him, and so did Dead Wheels of Existence.

Even here, even now, the Lineage of the Origin Prime Osmontian Infinitum shimmered across his form. A blue-gold flame danced upon Ozymandias' skin. Not alive. Not dead. Not real.

Paracausal.

He watched as members of the Hollow Concord of Nullity scattered across the Dead Frequencies like pale insects.

Yes. Some were still in this Dead Wheel of Existence.

There were no Mawbearers left.

Only Converged Architects and Harmonized Sourcebound Icons. Powerful. Methodical.

But lesser.

Each bore cracked remnants of Death, etched with blackened paradoxes, their forms shrouded in burial weavings stitched from collapsed Frequencies.

Even if he stood before them, with all their Complexity, he could make it so they never saw him.

They searched. Dug. Whispered. Mapped.

All for the Key.

The Key he already possessed.

"Still searching," Ozymandias whispered. "Still blind."

He raised a hand.

Extended a single finger.

And spoke.

"Death."

A single word.

Burning with the True Source of Death!

BOOM!

The Dead Prime Frequency of the Singed quaked, and all other Dead Frequencies of this Wheel did the same.

Tendrils of obsidian light erupted from the ground in every direction, twisting like tyrannical punishment. They spiraled upward, faster than time, before crashing downward in sweeping arcs, piercing the chests and skulls of the Hollow Concord members across frequencies.

No screams.

Only collapse.

Dozens. Hundreds.

All fell.

Not torn by force, but by designation.

Declared dead by something older than death itself.

Ozymandias lowered his hand.

The tendrils vanished. No blood. No remnants. Only silence and ruin.

He stepped forward once more, vanishing into the rippling folds of the Nullvein Gravewake.

To learn.

To consume.

To become something beyond life or death.

To seek… the song behind silence.

And the meaning behind a certain prophecy.

---

As Ozymandias crossed the Folds, others completed their own traversal and arrived at their destination.

In the shadow-drenched Nullvein Gravewake Folds, paradox and finality stirred.

Two figures walked side by side, one bearing a legacy of sorrow, the other a will forged in impossibility.

Thauron, the Null Monarch, moved like he owned the silence. Obsidian cloth draped over his form, whispering in forgotten tongues with every step. Beside him, Bob, newly risen from the Sorrowglass Fabled Gauntlet, walked with eyes full of calm and hope.

Around them, the Folds shifted. Collapsed existence that did not welcome travelers.

It devoured them. Collapsed them. Changed them.

And yet, they walked forward.

"You know what this place is?" Thauron asked, voice low and laced with shadow. "It's where the echoes of every decision ever unmade come to rest. That is what the folds really is...to me anyways. And yet, even here, some places are untouched. Unheard."

Bob stayed silent. He knew better than to interrupt when the Null Monarch spoke like that as he always continued on and on.

"We're heading toward one of those places. You can't seek it. You can't want it. You must be taken. Finality is the only guide. And it's leading us back."

"..."

Cryptic words that could barely be understood.

"Back?" Bob asked. "Back to what?"

Thauron's smile was more shadow than flesh. "Where I first arrived, when I earned freedom."

Freedom? Bob's eyes flashed.

"Freedom from what?"

The Null Monarch's gaze stayed forward, not even turning around. "Maybe I'll tell you. Someday."

Then, they saw it.

The air shimmered.

Obsidian thickened beneath their feet.

Paradoxes compressed into gravity so dense even True Sources bowed.

They crossed uncountable distances over what should have been hours, but it felt like days as Bob had already devoured all the True Source Sorrowglass Panaceas.

But they crossed all that endless distance to instantly arrive!

The Null Cradle of Fold-Breaking Ascension.

They appeared outside as Thauron led the way.

They stepped onto the first ring of the Outer Wheel.

Silence fell.

Dead and Living Entities nearby turned, gazes narrowing.

Bob stepped foot down first while Thauron floated.

And then, they saw.

A glorious emergence of...a Null Form.

HUUM!

Bob's Null Form bloomed upward.

A storm of slithering limbs, elegant rather than grotesque, violet obsidian-black tentacles writhed in silence, stitched with luminous runes. Towering.

Five hundred inches tall.

500!

Filled with Khaos.

It radiated chaotic symmetry. A wonder of sorrow wearing the bones of the sea.

Gasps spread across the Outer Wheel.

Even Thauron, after eons, frowned. Not in disdain. In admiration.

"I expected something from you," Thauron said. "But this? You've far surpassed my current expectations."

And then, the Folds shook.

Thauron's own Null Form rose behind him as he stepped down.

And it rose up maddeningly.

Horrifically to eclipse everything.

One thousand inches.

1,000!

It was an obsidian throne, massive and glorious. Its base swam in roiling blood and ancient chains that wept memory. Symbols carved on its back could not be read by the living, only felt.

Not command. But inevitability.

All who saw it lowered their eyes.

All except Bob as he became stern.

The Outer Wheel trembled under the weight of what had arrived.

Entities whispered.

"Who...is that?"

"What is that tentacled thing? It's huge!"

Commotion arose.

But...something else stirred as those newly arriving sensed something.

An imbalance.

Thauron turned, narrowing his eyes at the landscape.

He tilted his head. Listening and looking.

Then frowned.

"Strange."

Bob glanced at him. "What is it?"

Thauron swept a hand across the land. "Where are the Trial Wheels and Pillars? There should be hundreds. But I see so few…hey, you little tiny fish, what happened here?"

His words hung in the air.

A riddle, unraveling.

The tension in the surroundings deepened.

Something had changed.

The Entities looked around, uneasy.

Thauron's presence demanded truth as his Null Form pressed on everything here.

Finally, one stepped forward.

Caelnor of the Destifolds.

"A...Stranger came through," he said. "A day ago. We don't know from where. His Null Form was only three inches tall... but he lifted them- all trials. All of them."

Thauron's gaze sharpened.

"All of them?"

Caelnor nodded. "Every Trial Wheel. Every Pillar. Carried and set. One by one. Alone and with ease."

Another silence.

Then, Thauron smiled.

A deep, reverent sound. "Hmm...so someone else has done what I once did. When I believed the Fold was a mere test."

He looked to the sky and space that was endlessly black and filled with nothing.

Remembering.

"I did it once. But now, another has done it fully."

He turned to Bob.